


La Petite Mort

by casstayinmyass



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band), Repugnant (Band)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Character Death, Death Metal, Dirty Talk, F/M, Flirting, Goths, Necromancy, Pining, Resurrection, Table Sex, Vaginal Sex, Witch Mary, Witchcraft, Zombie sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:28:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26676688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casstayinmyass/pseuds/casstayinmyass
Summary: Mary Goore, a gifted witch, meets you one night and falls hard. When tragedy befalls you, he goes to supernatural bounds to bring you back.
Relationships: Mary Goore/Reader
Kudos: 23





	La Petite Mort

“It’s basic necro,” Mary mutters to himself. He stares at the dead leaf on his bedroom floor, curled up into a brown shell. It should have come back to life with the spell he’d been working on two hours ago, but instead, he’d been staring at this dried out, crunchy husk for that same amount of time, questioning his life choices and cursing whatever higher power decided to make him think he could do this. He scowls as he rummages around in the fast food bag and takes a bite of something greasy.

To be fair, Mary had never tried anything like this. His spells since he started to dabble in witchcraft were limited to shit like pyromancy (to set that one asshole’s car on fire), love potion (a prank, given to two sworn enemies just to see what kind of shit would go down), and levitation. Outside of this, Mary Goore certainly had the aesthetic going. Black drapes, black carpets, fairy lights strung around his bed and candles of every colour burning all day and night. He had always been a fan of black,

When he first became a witch, it was a thought present in his mind that he would use the powers he’d cultivate to bring his band to new heights—it was like making a deal with a demon, right? He’d influence certain things, tell the future to know which gigs had record labels... but in the end, he was still stuck in his shitty downtown apartment, electric guitar with one broken string his most valuable possession other than his healing crystals. He had to admit, the crystals at least had improved his life. His mental health had at least gotten a lot better with them around, and he had been getting laid a lot more. It was always a bonus too when he could use his party trick of levitating the condoms from the nightstand to impress the girl or guy in his bed. This witchcraft thing wasn’t all bad.

Wiping his greasy fingers on the tatters of what was left of his jeans, he concentrates. The words from the old book open beside him run through his mind as he focuses on making them reality, and he mumbles them, holding his hands over top of the dead piece of foliage. He visualizes his hands and fingers charging with a deep power that runs through his veins, and he starts to feel his body temperature rise. Crackling noises wake Mary from his visualization, and he opens his kohl-rimmed eyes to find the subject beneath him transforming back into a healthy, green leaf.

“Fuckin’ near time,” he mutters, not without a grin. So, this meant he could raise the dead! Well, a dead leaf. Technically he hadn’t tried anything else yet, like a body or something rad like that. He laid back on his black shag carpet, picturing himself in a cape with hair like Dr. Strange, raising up his arms as an army of zombies rose behind him. He looks down, and realizes he’s got a boner from the fantasy. “Shit,” he mutters, and sits back up, digging into his dinner to finish the bag off. He inspects the chicken nugget in his hand, smirking. Trying again, he sets it on the ground and hovers his fingers over it. Opening one green eye, he notices with some amusement that the nugget has not come back to life and turned into a chicken. “What a rip off,” he huffs, and pops it into his mouth.

Realizing his hard on isn’t even close to disappearing on its own, Mary decides to do something about it. Lying back on his bed, he twirls his finger around in a circle, watching as the book of witchcraft levitates and spins above him. Resting it down on the shelf, he grabs his phone and opens the app he uses for his hook-ups; like a goth Tinder he’d explain to his friends, if he had any. Mary unzips his pants just enough to relieve some of the pressure on his growing cock, and goes to scroll “people in his area.”

_Sarah Sanderson look alike, not in a good way..._

_That dude’s like a knockoff Crow double..._

_This chick’s vampire cosplay is cute, but she’s gonna wanna suck blood from my dick and shit, and then it gets complicated..._

_I will never fuck a guy named Galactus,_ Mary thinks, as he opens Galactus’ profile. Muscle dude who looks like a Glen Danzig wannabe. Mary scoffs, going back to scrolling. Just as he’s about to give up on tonight’s hunt, his phone buzzes with a message from someone. He looks up to the notification, and taps into it.

**_Rosemaryrose666: A witch, huh? That’s hot_ **

Mary inspects her profile pic, swiping through her photos. She looks like Barbie rebelled against her parents. Deciding she wasn’t all bad, he went back into the message thread, and typed back.

**_xBloodyMaryx: Hey babe. Witchcraft isn’t the only thing that’s hot about me_ **

**_Rosemaryrose666: Show me? ;)_ **

**_xBloodyMaryx: I don’t spoil the surprise. Meet up tonight at the Cask?_ **

The Cask was the local alternative bar, Mary’s usual haunt when he wanted to get his dick wet and venue where he and his band, Repugnant, played twice a month. Named after a Poe short story, it was the place where the dark underbelly of the town hung out when the sun went down. That’s one thing this town was good for—their goth and punk scene.

**_Rosemaryrose666: Midnight. You’ll find me around_ **

**_xBloodyMaryx: You got glow in the dark tits? Lol_ **

**_Rosemaryrose666: I will if I wear the right bra..._ **

Mary sucks air in through his nose and exhales slowly. Sounds like he has a great night ahead of him. Tossing his phone to the side, he reaches down, and thinks of Goth Barbie as he takes himself in hand, imagining those black painted lips sinking down over his dick. He has to prep himself a little with a few rounds before he gets ready to go—he doesn’t want the night to be over before it starts.

\---

Arriving a little bit ahead of time, Mary takes a seat at the bar, ordering himself an appletini. He savours the sweet taste of the apple liqueur mixed with the vodka, and feels it rush to his head in a pleasant buzz. Another death metal band plays on the cramped stage of the joint, though the critic in Mary has to say they sound more like screamo, a subgenre that pisses him off. Whatever. Any kind of metal is good enough to fuck someone in a bathroom stall, which he assumes is about as far as he’ll get tonight. He knows the type—goth Barbie will be all over him in seconds, practically in his lap, and when he suggests the bathroom, she’ll have her legs spread before Mary can say ‘abracadabra.’

“Thank you,” the band’s frontman growls into the mic. Mary rolls his eyes. Repugnant is so much better than these hacks. While he sits there pettily trying to perform a hex on this band, he doesn’t notice someone come in and sit down at one of the tables.

You slide into the table in the corner, ordering your drink of choice and taking down the hood of your coat. You’d never been here before—you’re new to the city. Having moved out here to pursue the job you’ve always wanted, you had also been determined to acquaint yourself with the nightlife of this place, which meant hitting as many local bars here and on the outskirts of town you could.

You’d also been looking for someone you could have a little fun with. Moving out here had left you feeling lonely, and at a place like this, you’re sure you can find your type.

Mary finishes off his drink, slipping a cigarette from behind his ear down into his mouth. With a quick flick of his light, he inhales, and watches the crowd through the curling smoke. That’s when he sees you. His fingers curl into the thigh of his jeans as his eyes sweep over your outfit. Black bustier, fishnets, leather miniskirt. Your plum lips are captivating too—he formulates his opening line, and stands up.

You look up as someone approaches the table. It’s a guy about your age, black hair spiked down in a devil’s peak. Overtop of torn jeans, he’s got a sheer mesh top on, exposing his chest and pierced nipples. You catch sight of an inverted cross tattooed just by his hip before looking up into his face, and smirk.

“Do you need me to call 911?” you ask him. Mary hesitates. He’d been the one planning to open, and didn’t expect you to go first.

“Uh,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Why?”

“You’ve got blood all over your face.” Taken off guard, Mary watches as you laugh, and finds himself joining in.

“Shit. That’s the first thing you noticed on me, huh?”

“Nah. Not the first thing. But it is an interesting talking point.” He sits down, sidling a little closer.

“How ‘bout this: your lips look like they’d fit mine just right.”

“Is that your best material you just wasted on me?” Again, Mary looks stunned, devolving into offended.

“Fuckin’... fine! Can you do any better?”

“Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” you retort. Mary rolls his eyes.

“Man—”

“It obviously did, with all that fucking blood on your face.” Despite himself, Mary has to snicker some more. You’ve captivated him past your looks, and he’s intrigued enough to stay.

“I’ve never seen you here before. And believe me, I come here a fuckin’ lot.” You nod slowly.

“I don’t doubt it. I however, just moved here.”

“What’s your name?” You tell him your name, and he hums.

“Mary Goore. Resident witch.”

“You’re a witch?” you ask, interested. “Wouldn’t you be called a warlock?”

“I prefer witch.”

“Fair enough.” You take a sip of your drink through the straw. “So, you could say you... come here often.”

“Don’t start up that lame pick up line bullshit again.”

“You started that, not me!” Mary grins, and you nod to his cigarette. “Might wanna smoke that.”

“What?” he mutters.

“Before it—” You grimace as the neglected smoke drops half its ash onto Mary’s ripped up pant leg. He swears, and crushes the thing in the tray on the table. Then he spots something—or someone, as the case may be—by the door.

“Oh, fuck. Hide me.”

“What?” you frown.

“Hide me, it’s her!”

“Who?!” Mary grimaces.

“The chick I was supposed to meet tonight!” Before you can think of a response, your intuition tells you to hide Mary beneath the table. You shove him down, and he crawls between your legs (because of course he does), just as the supposed date walks by you. She turns slightly, eyes narrowed suspiciously. You note with some amusement that she looks like Barbie dyed her hair black and used her daddy’s money to get tattoo sleeves.

“Excuse me, did you see a tall, punk looking guy around here?” she asks you. You swallow.

“You’ll have to be more specific.” It’s a valid reply—this place is filled with nothing but punks.

“I don’t know, looked like he got his head smashed through a window. Kinda morbid, but I’m into that shit I guess. Had a weird chick’s name, Mary something?” You don’t know why her comments are affecting you—you had just met Mary, but you already feel defensive.

“I didn’t see anyone like that, sorry,” you reply, setting your jaw. She lets out a frustrated groan.

“It’s always the freaks who stand me up,” she growls, and stomps off in search of a new fuck buddy for the night. You scowl her way as Mary pokes his head up.

“Did you... hear all that?” you ask him.

“’Course. Fuckin’ bitch.”

You stifle a giggle. “Yeah. I guess you dodged a bullet.”

“Nah, I’m bulletproof. I fuck girls like that all the time. If they just see me as some hot goth Gandalf motherfucker and want my magical dick, I’m not gonna complain.”

“You sound like a teenager who’s trying to lose your virginity,” you smirk.

“That’s my charm, angel,” he gives you an endearingly crooked smile. “I never grew up.” You feel your cheeks blush a bit, and turn back from the punk metalhead to your drink.

“You’re more of a gentleman than I thought.”

“Huh?” He acts like it’s an insult.

“When you were between my legs, you didn’t touch anything.” He looks at you dead in the eye.

“Why would I have?” You clear your throat.

“Well. It was right there. You’re... a man.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, “And I don’t touch what’s not mine.” Feeling that warmth return to you, you swirl your drink around as he goes on. “But babe, if you were mine? I’d have eaten your pussy right here, under this table.” Your lips part, and you exhale.

“You wanna get out of here?” you ask. “This band is driving me fucking crazy.”

The two of you walk beside each other, bumping shoulders every now and then. It’s a chilly night, and you can see your breath. You tug your jacket tighter around your shoulders, and Mary looks at you. You laugh.

“This is the part where you offer me your jacket,” you joke.

“What?” he huffs. “I’d be freezin’ my fucking nutsack off if I did that.” You laugh, and walk in silence for a little longer. After about a minute, you feel something being draped over your shoulders, and look back to see Mary’s leather jacket over your own. He crosses his arms begrudgingly beside you, shivering violently. You bite your lip, and slide your arm around his torso, bringing him closer for warmth.

When you reach your apartment, you take your key out and slip Mary jacket on properly. The sleeves go past your hands, and you pap him on the head. “Come on. Let’s get warm.” He swats your hand away, and dashes up the stairs with a gymnast’s agility. You get up to your apartment, and dump your stuff. Mary collapses on the couch, and picks up a DVD case that had been flung on the coffee table in front of him. _Beetlejuice, 1988._ He flips it over, then tosses it down again, interested instead in eyeing your ass. He hasn’t had a good look at it yet.

“You know something?” he asks.

“Mm?”

“You’re fucking hot.”

You turn to look over your shoulder. “I’m glad you think so.”

“Were you hoping to go home with a guy like me tonight?”

“I was hoping for somebody. You’re just a bonus.” He gets up to join you, and finds you standing over a record player. He goes through a couple of your records, and picks one out: Seven Churches, by Possessed.

“I’ve done a couple of my rituals to this,” he tells you.

“Yeah?”

He puts the record onto the turntable, and reaches around your shoulders to position it. “Yeah... played a couple covers of it too.”

“You play, huh?”

“...Yeah.” Suddenly, you’re all too aware of your proximity to Mary. His lips graze your ear, and you draw in a breath. In a rush, he drops the needle, and the opening of Possessed’s “The Exorcist” begins, leading the two of you into a deep kiss against the table. When the guitars hit, Mary slams his hips against yours, and you part your legs as he picks you up under your ass and sits you on the table. Your head tilts up as Mary ravages your neck, marking you with kisses and love bites. You can feel the costume blood from his face getting all over your skin, but you love it. Your legs wrap around him, and before you know it, your hands are pawing at his clunky belt, unbuckling it and pulling him in closer by it.

Mary growls into your neck, dragging his teeth back up to kiss you again. He captures your bottom lip in a bite, and you moan into his mouth. With a swift brush, Mary pushes your top down, and fondles your breasts, taking time to squeeze each and massage. Your breath hitches.

“Take them out,” you plead. Mary tries to unhook your bra behind you, but quickly gets frustrated, ripping it open and ducking his head down to suck one of your nipples into his mouth. He rolls it around between his teeth, lathing his tongue around it until it’s peaked. He does the same to the other, and you feel the throb of appreciation in your cunt.

“Like that?” Mary huffs, hurriedly taking your panties down. You gaze into his eyes, looping your arms around his neck.

“Mary. I want you.” He stands you up again, holding you against the desk with his arms around your back. You reach down to take him out, and with a flick of his wrist, a box of condoms appears in his hands.

“How’d you do that?” you breathe. He flashes a grin.

“Magic.” He takes one out, and with practiced precision, he rolls it down over his hard cock. You admire how long he is, impatient to feel it inside of you. You lift up just enough, wiggling your hips to angle yourself, and the lanky man between your legs nudges his cockhead just past your entrance, waiting for your okay with admirable restraint.

“Move,” you groan, and he slams his hips in. The first thrust has you gasping, holding onto him as he takes care to find the right spot and the right pace for you both. With another thrust, his left hand explores your body, reaching up again to touch your breast and drag his fingernails up your back. You lean into him, clutching onto his back and burying your head in his shoulder as he goes a little bit faster. “That’s good,” you urge, “Please Mary. Harder.”

“You want it harder, huh?” he growls. “You take my cock so well, baby. You’re so fuckin’ wet. So tight, _fuck_.” His eyes close, and you try to think of anything coherent you can say past moaning, but you can’t. His cock rocks into you again in hurried pounds, and he shifts his foot slightly, holding you up high enough to switch angles. His cock slides even deeper, hitting the spot that makes you cry out his name.

“Mary! Fuck, right there!”

“Want it there, babydoll?”

“Yeah, just like that!”

“Come on, milk my cock,” he whispers in your ear. “I’m gonna cum so fucking hard inside you.”

“Make me cum, Mary—”

“You’re fucking perfect. Fucking perfect, never had pussy so good.” He lets out a deep grunt into your neck, and takes your chin, tilting your face down to his from your position above him on the table. “Look at me. Wanna see it when you cum around my cock.”

“Mar—”

“Lemme see it.” He places both hands on your tits, then snakes one hand down to rub circles around your clit. Your hips stutter from grinding down onto him, and the two of you lock eyes. A strange connection passes between you both, like an intense heat filling you up. Mary’s eyes look almost like they’re glowing in the dark, and they widen as you start to feel your orgasm wash over you. “Babe, ungh!”

“Yes,” you moan out, and your entire body melts into his as the heat explodes inside you, connection deepening even more. It’s like something inside your mind had erupted—all you can see and think of is Mary, feel his essence as a part of your body. You vaguely register Mary emptying himself into the condom inside your squeezing cunt, moaning in a high pitched whine as he rides out his high. When he’s finished, you’re laying back on the table, trying to catch your breath.

“What just happened?” he murmurs.

“You tell me,” you breathe. “Your eyes. They went all...” You try to make a motion. “Spooky wooky.”

“Spooky fuckin’ wooky?”

You laugh. “Yeah.”

“Fuck. I think we made some sort of connection.” You sit up on your forearms as Mary drags a hand through his sweaty hair.

“Is that what you say to all your conquests?” Mary pulls out of you, and—fondly—flips you the finger.

\---

It had been two days since you had met Mary Goore at The Cask. You had been on the hunt for a new bar to check out with him, but you hadn’t heard from him. Tonight, you had found a fun monster-themed bar you’re sure Mary would like on the outskirts of town. If he ever did call you back with that number you’d left in the back pocket of his jeans before he left your place the morning after, it might be a fun date.

Not that he had been living in your brain rent-free for the last two days, or anything.

Buried in his studies, Mary flips the page of his book he had doodled pentagrams all over. Although he’d been spending the last few days studying more necromancy, he hadn’t been able to get you off the mind. He always found his thoughts wandering back to your smile, your wit, the way you had fucked him that night. He sucks on his bottom lip, murmuring your name as he looks down at the page in his book about Beelzebub and the Witch’s Sabbat. He’d sell his immortal soul to Beelzebub if it meant spending more time with you. God _dammit_.

“Are you fuckin’ smitten, asshole?” he asks himself out loud. His immediate answer was ‘no’, but he knows unfortunately that it’s a lie. He turns back to his book to distract himself, and practices again on the dead bird he had found by the road. He concentrates hard, shoebox with the corpse inside the circle of lit black candles, and starts to chant.

On the side of the road, you cross your arms and wait for another car. The last two had passed you by. You know you shouldn’t be hitchhiking—especially in a new place you don’t know—but you have no other way to get home from all the way out here. You had only gotten a little tipsy and a little high, and you’re glad for your good sense to respect your own limit now. If you had gotten all-out, balls to the wall zooted, you’d probably be falling off the cliff of this highway. Smiling slightly, you kick a rock over the edge. It’s a long way down. You close your eyes, and imagine Mary’s hands around your waist, holding you there so you never fall. Your phone beeps, and you back away from the edge to check it.

 _It’s nearly 1 in the morning,_ you think with a frustrated huff. You had to be up tomorrow morning (today, really) for a job interview. The skid of wheels catches your attention, and you look up from the screen of your phone. Headlights! You walk toward the road, waving your hands. You can see at least four people in the car, but you think there’s a seat in the back you could squeeze between. You’re not above that for a ride home.

The car doesn’t seem to see you. You step out a little further, waving frantically as the car approaches with gaining speed. You’re about to back up and curse them for not stopping, but you don’t see the rock in front of your foot. You step and trip forward, eyes widening, and you thrust your hands out in front of you. The woman riding shotgun points to you in horror, and the driver tries to swerve as you hear her sharp scream of _“BRAD, LOOK OUT!”_ The last thing you hear is your own desperate scream, and your vision is closed out by the sudden violent impact of headlights, unable to stop in time.

A few minutes go by. Crickets chirp, and the sounds of the city in the distance make things a little less unbearable. The driver gets out, as does the passenger. The two in the back stay in the car, scared out of their wits. The driver holds his head as he regards your bloody body.

“Aw, fuck.”

“We’ve gotta do the right thing, Brad,” the woman begs. “Please.”

It had been another day or so, and Mary’s trying to forget about you. The only problem is, he can’t.

“Fuck this,” he whispers, standing up. He waves his hand and the candles go out, and he opens his curtains, heading out onto his balcony. He hops up on the railing and leans his head back as he lights up a smoke, and dials your number. It rings once... twice... three, four and five times until your voicemail comes on.

_Hey! You’ve reached me. If you didn’t mean to, fuck you. If you did, leave a nice message, and try not to hurt my feelings._

Mary huffs a laugh, and waits for the beep. “Hey. It’s uh... me. It’s Mary, I mean. Mary Goore? From the bar. Sorry I didn’t call back right away. I’m not used to, uhh.... doing this. Whole thing. Where I call someone back. No joke, first time I’ve called a chick back after a fuck, so... consider yourself lucky. But I liked hanging out with you. And, um... I liked fucking you. Guess that’s obvious. I’m rambling, this is dumb as fuck... uh... call me back? I guess. If you wanna... do it again. Right. See ya.” He hangs up, closing his eyes. Why couldn’t he have left something cool, like, “Babe. It’s me. Want round two? You know where to find me.” But for some reason, you had him tongue tied, thinking about that connection the two of you had made when you both came that night. Was it hot out there?

Mary hops down off the railing, and flicks his butt over the edge, barely smoked. Some small part of him really does hope you’ll call back.

Two more days go by. Three. Soon, it’s been a full week since the bar. Mary’s going stir crazy. Every time he checks his app for a quick fuck or a little phone sex, he can’t bring himself to want anyone else. He can feel your touch on him like a buzzing imprint, and he wants to feel it again first hand.

He lights a few candles, and dials the pizza place he’s about to order from. Just as he’s about to hit call, he gets a sensation in his hands, similar to the one he felt that night. When he blinks, he sees your eyes. Mary stumbles back, and holds himself up on the kitchen counter. Feeling like that’s as much of a sign as any, he takes his phone in hand, and dials you up from his recents as he cleans the messy kitchen of the trash. He clears the dirty dishes while it rings, tosses the wrappers in the garbage, and picks up the day old newspaper he never read. As the phone continues to ring, he flips the paper open to the obituaries just for fun—his favourite section. Getting bored, he flips back to the front page, where he sees a breaking headline about a fatality, body found at the side of the road. _Gotta love fatalities._ Settling in for a good, morbid read, Mary scans the first lines.

_Hey, you’ve reached me. If you didn’t mean to call me, f..._

Mary tunes out your voice on the line as he reads something from the page. He finds himself focused on a single picture, with your name below it.

_Deceased._

_Accident._

_Buried today._

Eyes wide, Mary lets the phone slip down from where his shoulder is holding it. He reads on.

_“We just found her like that,” says local college student Bradley Mumford. “We’re lucky to have found her. Such a sad, sad tragedy.”_

Mary crumples the paper, letting it fall on top of his cracked phone on the grimy kitchen linoleum. He walks over, and collapses down to sit on the couch. He shouldn’t feel this empty. As he obsessively reminded himself, he had only met you a week ago. But one minute you had been living, and the next you were gone?! Just like that! For all the fascination Mary had with death, it had never touched him so close to home.

The brunette punk runs his hands through his hair, swearing under his breath. He should’ve called you earlier. Maybe if he had been with you or something, you’d still be alive. But no matter how much he needed to blame this on someone, he couldn’t blame himself. Not really. It was still unclear what even happened, and with you being buried so soon they were unlikely to ever find out. That Bradley asshole probably had something to do with it, used the trust fund to pay off the coroners or something. _Cause of death: totally not a car accident._

Mary huffs into his hands, and smears the fake blood down his shirt. His eyes zero in on something on his windowsill. It’s hopping around the animal skulls, jarred herbs, occult banners, and Ouija board he kept by the window. He squints at it, and it hits him. Mary stands, walking over to the little sparrow.

“You,” he mutters. “You were fuckin’ dead.” The bird stares up at him, twitching. One of its eyes is still gored, and a deep slash runs under one wing. Mary blinks at it. “I brought you back. I brought you back from the dead.” Hesitantly, he turned to glance at the crumpled newspaper, your warped picture smiling up at him.

\---

Dressed in a puffy black coat he had “borrowed” from J.C. Penny, Mary makes his way through the graveyard. Blaring in his headphones is some Lady Gaga, because fuck if that didn’t get him psyched up to do something this idiotic.

He approaches the fresh plot of your grave, and opens up his oversized jacket to let all the supplies spill out. Candles, lighter, cloak, spellbook. Mary slips the cloak on with the sigils stitched down the arms, and opens the book to the chapter on Necrokinesis. He lets the energy of cemetery empowerment charge through him as he stands, silent. The howling wind in his ears grows louder, and he can feel the individual auras of all the rotting corpses left behind in memoriam here in this wasteland of human life.

Focusing on your grave, Mary sits down, cross-legged. He reads from the book, and opens his eyes. Nothing seems to be happening. The breeze hasn’t changed, there’s no crackling lights coming from the gravestone like from Jason Lives, and your hand hasn’t burst from the dirt yet as far as he can see. With the same strength and inner command he had used when he had practiced before, Mary lets that earthly power flow through him. His hands raise as he pictures the leaf he had restored from its shell to its glory. He pictures the bird he had risen from the grave, and then he pictures you. How you must have looked lying there. Lying under the ground where he was sitting, peaceful and stiff and stale. His hands raise even higher, and he starts to feel the familiar burn in his hands. He opens his eyes, and sees bits of soil start to roll off the fresh grave. Mary’s eyes widen, and he scrambles back, watching in captivation as the climax of the spell finally takes hold: fingers squirm up through the dirt and part it.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you regain consciousness. The last thing you remember is the vision of headlights slamming into you with a car attached to them, then nothing but black. Now, with some force guiding you, you find yourself beating your way up through a pine box and out of soil that surrounds you.

_Soil. Pine box?! You must have been..._

Mary sits on his haunches, watching as you crawl your way up through the ground. In awe of what he’d done, he rises to his feet and takes a few steps back. You surface from the ground and turn your head, proving that it is in fact, still you. You’re beautifully grotesque—just as you were the night he had seen you, but covered head to toe in dirt. Your skin, shining in the moonlight, is caked in rust covered blood. Hadn’t they cleaned you? Prepared your body before burying you? Part of Mary is glad they didn’t. Okay, all of Mary is. He feels the first stir of arousal when your glazed over eyes fall to him.

“Mary?” you ask. Your voice is paper thin. He exhales like a punched out sigh.

“You... you’re fucking dead.”

You look down at your arms, watching the dirt roll off of you. “Thanks to you, not anymore.” The bones in your neck make a sickening crack as you look up to him again. “You resurrected me.”

“Yeah, I can fucking see that.”

“Why?”

Mary pauses. He doesn’t really know how to answer. “You... I guess you didn’t deserve to die.” You tilt your head, so he continues to babble. “Lots of people, they do. But you...” he shakes his head. “Fuck that. I really...” He tries to find words. You nod slowly.

“Me too.” Your bones crack some more as you try to take a step, and Mary looks your decaying body up and down. Your corpse was only in the early stages of rot, so it had barely begun—still, it made him feel something. You notice him looking, and start to thumb down the top they had buried you in. Some of your skin comes off with your fingers, and Mary watches, transfixed. “You like me like this?”

“Gotta say it. You look so fuckin’ sexy like this,” Mary mutters. You reach forward, and he hisses as your hand comes in contact with his bulge.

“Can I take it out?”

“Yeah.” He bites his bottom lip. “Take it out.” You do as he says, and see that he’s hard already.

“Just from watching me?” you ask, standing back up as you take him in hand. “Just from watching me rise from the grave?” Mary grunts a little, reaching up to take you by the shoulders.

“Babe, you keep talking like that, I’m gonna blow my load before I give you the best fuck of your life.” He realizes how ironic that is, and backtracks. “Your afterlife?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper, starting to stimulate him in slow strokes of your cold hand, “You brought me back to life.” You twitch, one eye starting to roll back on its own. “I’m like the fucking bride of Frankenstein.”

“Ah,” Mary breathes. His grip tightens on your shoulders.

“Would you be my Frankenstein, Mary?” you ask softly. Mary grabs you, pulling you both to the ground. He slots himself over you and brings his lips down, careless of the fact that he’s kissing someone who just clawed their way out of the ground. The dirt all over your skin only turns him on, getting under his fingernails and caking on his lips as he kisses you.

“You still warm, babydoll?” he asks you. You smirk up at him, your other eye rolling back so he can only gaze into ethereal white.

“Find out.” You reach down, arm twisting unnaturally as you bend far enough to take him in hand again. As you continue to work his cock, Mary pulls up the skirt they buried you in. Two fingers sink into your wetness, and he groans. He flips the two of you so you’re on top, and you crawl down between his legs just as you had crawled out of the ground. In one fluid motion, you take his cock into your mouth, sinking down all the way. Your gag reflex is gone; being dead helps. Mary’s hands fly to the back of your head as he watches what can only be affectionately described as a horror movie come to life between his legs. That only makes him harder, and you feel the throb against your tongue.

“You gonna cum in my mouth?” you whisper, darting out your tongue for another long lick. A ring of soil from your grave covers the base of his dick. _“Fill my cadaver with it, Mary.”_

“Fuck,” Mary groans. “No. Wanna be... gotta be in you. Wanna cum inside you.” The two of you roll over again, and Mary pins you down by your wrists. Your tongue sweeps out to lick your lips, and the punk overtop of you can’t help but do the same. Black hair falling over his eyes, he sweeps it to the side with blacker fingernails and reaches down to kiss you. While he envelops your lips in a heated repetition of bites and licks, you open your legs wider, crossing them around his back. Your flexibility has increased—no longer popping and creaking, your bones are silent as the night air. Instead, you angle your hips upward and push yourself down onto his cock.

“Mary,” you repeat, as if his name is a prayer. He grunts, buried to the hilt inside your tight heat.

“Lemme... lemme see your eyes, babygirl.” He exhales, and you let your eyes fall back, white disappearing as your glazed pupils meet his vital ones. “Fuck, you’re pretty.”

“Even when I’m dead?” you ask coyly. He growls, nipping at your chin, down to your neck.

“You’re the living dead, babe. That’s the best kind.” He snaps his hips back into you, and you gasp. With no running blood, the pleasure of Mary’s cock stretching inside of you comes from something supernatural—his powers maybe, the witchcraft he had used to bring you back. Just knowing what you were and what lengths this “one night’s stand” had gone to to bring you back was enough to strengthen the bond between your two bodies.

“Make me cum, Mary?” you beg. You blink up at him, eyelashes fluttering. The moonlight only makes your cracked lips glisten move with the saliva he’d left behind on them, and they tempt him in for another kiss. You rock down desperately, lust consuming you, and Mary starts to unravel.

“So perfect like this. Cum around my cock, angel. Let me bring you all the way back to life.” He pounds in rough. “You like this cock? Can you feel it?”

“I can feel it,” you moan. “Just like that night.”

“And now look at you,” he growls against your lips. His face scrunches up as his cock kicks inside of you. “You’re as pretty as a goddamn princess!” Your neck lifts and your body arches up into Mary, holding him inside you as you feel the waves of your climax take you. Mary’s breath and the distant howl of a wolf are the only sounds audible so late at night in the forested cemetery where they buried you.

“Got a question. Be fuckin’ honest. How does it feel to cum as a dead chick?” he mutters, flinging his arm over his eyes in exhaustion.

“Le petite mort,” you smile. After a second, you remember something. “I never thanked you for resurrecting me.”

“...Think you just did.” Resting your head overtop his beating heart, you get a good look at your own gravestone. Reading the death date begins to build a sense of rage inside of you.

“Mary?”

“...Huh? Yeah?”

“How did they say I died?”

“Accident. Some fucker named Bradley found you.” You tighten a fist in the dirt.

“Would you teach me some of that magic you know? I’ve got a vendetta.” Mary smirks up at you.

“Shit, babe. Don’t make me all horny again, alright? My dick’ll be at dead as you.” You turn around and—fondly—flip him the finger.


End file.
